Cold and Ugly
by Radio Interference
Summary: Damnit.
1. follow the money

I'm all alone.

A capitalist, opportunist bastard. All alone wallowing in his own lake of filth, his own bathtub. A personal shower of resentment, all alone.

Well, that's not entirely true.

It depends on how you characterize alone. A lot of retards on the internet debate what alone is. And I'm alone. I think. I can change that. I remember seeing a movie. Michael Clayton if I'm not mistaken.

Heh. That rhymes. Anyway, theatrical release poster was The Truth Can Be Adjusted.

So that's what I'm going to do. A little disclaimer; I'm a lying, cheating moneywhoreNO I AM A SAINT.

Just don't fucking fuck with it, alright? I've already fucked it over enough. Nothing's true here. Including me.

* * *

From the top. A cigarette in one gloved hand, gun in the other.

Well, forget the blunt. Two guns. Can't be too safe in a siege.

Anyway, that cancer stick is now resting comfortably in my mouth. On one side of me is a doorway, not far away are some generic Freedom Fighters, on my other side is a scrapped, rusted wall, like one good punch good stick a hole through it like paper.

Anyway I kick the door down. Not me. Sorry. I'd fix this part but it's not as relevant to the story. One of the generic foot soldiers kicks the door down, and we charge in **With Guns Ablazing**. **Robotnik's **soldiers drop one by one.

**We pass with mostly flying colors **but we did incur **One **casualty.** Robnotnik troopers** has taken down one of my men. He tells me, "**End it. I am no soldier.**" I plead but **he insists.**

I pull the trigger and **Okay, stop. This is too obvious. You know and I know.**

**Not to mention isn't the top. This is not the middle. This is completely unrelated. I think. In the current context, no.**

**Let me start over. **

* * *

Because Knothole is a shithole. I hate it here. Sally says it's what we have for now. I believe her but I believe my person too. Sally says I need to unite. Sally says. Sally says.

I say, fuck this.

It's time to work my magic. Truth is I'm a vigilante. I'm a national hero alright, but in this kind of world, you follow the money. Not to mention economic problems these days.

Anyway, I'm the only free agent in this Hot Stove League. Freedom fighters are Yankees. I think.

I wonder if I crossed over…

"Never works." Someone says. I'm sure it's familiar. I'm sure it could be. On the other hand there are quite a lot of generic faces in the yank- I mean, freedom fighters, and hank Steinbrenner's somewhere too.

I think I speleldedb his jname wrong.

"It'll work."

Lots of things wrong with that

Among other things.

* * *

I run like the fastest motherfucker I am, though I could run faster. I'm at the front of the pack-barely. I have so much gear on. I feel like a fucking robot.

I should watch what I say. Doesn't take too much from a morbidly obese scientist to turn you into a hunk of metal. It's happened before, Rabbot/D'Coolette.

I must be high or something. I should calm down. I strike up a convo with the nearest person.

"Shit weather, huh?" I say.

"Yeah." He says. "I really don't know what Acorn was fucking thinking. If it weren't for so many dicks turning this down before, I wouldn't be out here."

Wow.

.woW

Okay, whatever. I could be telling him shut up, Sally knows what's she's doing.

I think. But it'd not be smart. I'm a slave to the will of the people. And the people are mad.

!? Was that even English? It'd? I must be losing it.

I hope. Not.

Okay. Anyway. A light shines on us.

Fire at the light. Light at the fire.

Light it up. Hell no.

* * *

-

-

-

1234455443453

444434343434

343442343234-

* * *

-

-

…

* * *

I think something's gone from me, what habe I learned? Hwhajhsbf what have I learned?

What has she leanred?

* * *

There's something ambiguous to this. The way blood's everywhere. Anyway, cradling in my hands is some body. Somebody. Some _body._ I'm sure this was someone I knew once. Before his chest was blown open, and there's bullet holes everywhere. In me, too. Penetrated like the **saint I am.**

(sorry, I just can't hate myself like that. Without me I'd be dead)

Fur matted with blood. What I think is a skunk? Anyway. Whatever shit smell anything can emanate is worse because it's dead. I discard him with disgust.

My legs really hurt and this is when I realize it's daytime.

I'm in a morgue.


	2. What?

**

* * *

**

sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorrry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry

* * *

Let's rewind a little. Hit stop first. So you're watching nice, friendly tv. Telling a story, too.

Anyway, hit play now. RIGHT NOW.

Or you can read this.

I was assuming you didn't want to watch the previews.

* * *

It's cute when he argues.

But my mind is decided. Tails is smart. But you can't argue morals- honestly, there are no such things- or for the most part, what defines anything. Science and squiggles help you on the chalkboard but real life is the infinite-number, the unanswerable question, the paradox which no amount of MIT green berets can put into a formula. Kind of like Pi.

"…isky, you're going to follow Acorn like a hound? Think reasonably, man…"

Um, what else? I'm getting paid.

"tnik's too dangerous, you're out of your league!"

I pack my bags but I probably won't need them.

"nna follow Sally to your death? You aren't a martyr!"

…big words for someone fixing to pull a martyr in about 25 years or so.

That's beside the point. This whole chapter's beside the point. I'm breaking the fourth wall here. This is beside the point. Back to the story. The story's beside the point. There is no point. I'm a dull, dull pencil.

"….please."

This is why you don't take 8 year olds through life-threatening experiences. Especially mad-genius ones.

They learn responsibility.

This is the point where you fast forward.

This is the point where I fast forward. I'm only slowing down myself.


	3. maurice cooper

**i don't know what it is. but i guess i have to finish it. all this is an experiment. go figure. **

* * *

Okay. Okay. This is where it starts.

From the middle. Top. Bottom in some cases. Whatever.

Knothole. Freedom Fighters east base.

It's been a while. Not long, but enough. Because

A.) I didn't see anyone.

B.) It seemed like all the people there were fanboying over me.

The downside of being a national hero.

Eh heh heh. I make my way through the wave of flesh and being like David parting waves.

Which is something. People think of me on par with biblical figures.

Figures.

* * *

"No."

I don't get used to being rejected. I'm usually accepted, appreciated, someone who gets what they want.

It feels good. I have to work for it.

And work for it I will.

* * *

Count to ten.

Close my eyes.

A ten second reprieve from prison.

Okay. Redo that.

Open them.

It's no morgue. I don't know what it is.

…ahehahahaehahueauhauehueahueauheauheauhea

Haahahahahahahahahaahaha

Hahahah! HAH! OH MY GOD!

NO! HAH!

I pick up a body and slam it into the wall. Whoever it was falls down. I kick it and kick it. Blood all over my feet. Chest slowly caves in.

Take that as you want. This is a lie and a truth.

I'm a terrible person.

I grin. Because I'm a fuckup and I really don't know what I'm talking about. Or what I'm doing.

There's not much to do now. Surrounded by dead bodies. Empty dolls in various positions in some room with a stench like hell.

And there's no exit.

…iguesssss I have to pass some time.

I touch myself sometimes and I **DO NOT BEGIN TO** really just get bored in here sometimes

What do I do?

* * *

Anyway. ANYway. **Let's just say we were getting a little off course.** I'm always off course. What the fuck am I talking about?

I tell Sally, "you brought me back because I'm a cash cow. Everyone knows me. I have my face on children's underwear."

She just nods and smiles. "chemistry has been up the roof. You're a sparkplug in this place, Sonic."

I grin. Inside. I grin inside. Because now she owes me. Even if she doesn't know it.

* * *

"Twenty five."

"Thirty."

"Twenty."

"Fuck."

"Twenty five is how high I will go," he says, irritated.

"Thirty or leave it." I say, taunting him. Daring. Because now he has me and if he doesn't want me I'll ruin him like I ruined Sally.

…I take credit for everything. But the bodies are proof. She's incompetent as a commander. She's just lost Sonic the Hedgehog, right? Public's rioting over loss of death (e.g. Mine) and they're in worse than what they started with.

Because she didn't want me.

He stays silent for a moment- I hate to admit it, but it feels like forever- but then sighs. He starts walking away.

I won Robotnik.


	4. i

18 years.

18 years.

I only been dead for five of these years.

But a deal's a deal, right? Thirty mil a year. I wrote it on paper.

* * *

"What happened?"

Safety off. Gun cocked. Like a snuff film gone bad.

Someone up there's masturbating to this.

"I gave you what you wanted."

I don't answer, because I don't have to. I don't want to. Because this is money- down the drain. 54 hundred, maybe? Billions? Trillions?

Because I can't stay pleased.

* * *

Paper is the worst material. You can burn it, you can crush it, you can tear it up but it's always coming back. As long as there are trees. As long as there are people with money. As long as there are newspapers. There's a staying power to it.

So why is it the worst?

* * *

Rock the hammer and turn up the decibels

* * *

People do a lot of crazy things for paper. Money, I mean. Paper money is the stuff they go out for.

It's nothing but a greed factor.

* * *

Another man dead.

Now what?

Um. Okay, five years have passed. They remember me. I think.

But I know what I'll do.

Because it's the second coming.

* * *

A million miles away. No newspapers, no televisions, no radios because honestly there's no station in at least 3 continents around this place.

And now it's all mine. Hell.

It'll be a long drive back home.


	5. Sorry

**I'm sorry guys. I don't even know what I was writing.**

* * *

Well.

This is not a common position I find myself in.

I rarely find myself pinned to a wall, arms spread out like some kind of jesus…

Well, I guess that's not politically correct. Or correct. Jesus saves lives.

I just ruin them.

* * *

"Abandoned the New Republic for half a decade…"

* * *

I stand- or, well, hang from my hands- in front of a crowd of around fifty, sixty, eighty maybe, seventy easily, group of mobians. Five years ago, they'd be applauding or something.

Five years later they want to lynch me.

On the bright side, you can't say I'm not popular.

* * *

"Allied himself with the failed Sally Acorn of Knothole,"

* * *

I try to shrug, doing my best impression of a monkey scratching his nose with his toe. I don't know if they're trying something new and make an example out of me, or ran out of nails and couldn't finish pegging me to the wall.

* * *

"And then accepted a bribe to feign death by Ivo Robotnik."

* * *

"What do you say, heathen?"

Oh. Right. The execution. Of me.

Well, a lot has changed in five years. I don't know who you guys are or what the New Republic is. Frankly, I don't give a shit. Like I said, a lot has changed in five years. I'm no capitalist bastard.

Take that for what you will. I'm done talking.

* * *

"The execution will be carried out immediately."

* * *

Guess who's going to chop my head off?

I smile at Knuckles, he just glares at me.

I give a look of boredom. "I'm disappointed."

He says nothing and raises the axe. I close my eyes.

"I'm already gone."

I close my eyes and I open them. Now I

'_m driving to the lake in a corvette. Couple broads in the seats. Mountainside view is beautiful. _

* * *

Opulentia evinco totus.


End file.
